


The Tale of a Sworn Sword

by Vermilion_Sunrise



Series: A Sworn Sword of Westeros [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fucking, Lady of Winterfell, Naked Swims, Reluctant Sandor, Sandor POV, Sandor as unwilling, Sex, Teasing, strong female character, tournament
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-05-04 20:57:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14601579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vermilion_Sunrise/pseuds/Vermilion_Sunrise
Summary: Westerosi A/U, SanSan:  Lord Eddard Stark's Name Day Tournament always draws the biggest and the best warriors of Westeros. Having been a long time mercenary in Dorne and Essos, Sandor Clegane turns his eyes toward winning this tournament and its large purse. What he doesn't bargain on is drawing the eye of the Lady of Winterfell.A story done from Sandor's point of view, this is meant to be a fun, smutty and relaxing read - nothing too serious. Enjoy!





	1. The Uninvited Guest

**Author's Note:**

> To all those who have read "A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms" I have based Sansa off of Lady Rohanne - so she will be a bit off character with regard to how she acts. For that she will be strong and flirtatious!
> 
> One important thing to note: In this story Sansa is the only living child of the Starks and IS the Lady of Winterfell. Also the politics of Westeros are going to kind of be sidelined for a more ... federal system. The Queen in the North is much more powerful than she would be under a ruler in King's Landing.
> 
> Something I hope to bring out in this one is Sandor's reluctance to enter into a relationship with her. I'm crossing my fingers for some funny conversation and situations to come out of this. It's always the case that Sandor is the 'one in love' and I kind of wanted to turn that on its head and try something different. Let's see if success can be achieved here.

# Chapter 1: An Uninvited Guest

 

It had been a long hard ride from Dorne to the North, hot as the fucking seven hells too. It was for these very reasons that Sandor Clegane decided to stop not more than an hour’s ride from Winterfell in order to cool himself off. He’d found a small lake as clear blue as any he had seen in Westeros with a large old shade tree not five paces from the water’s edge. It was the perfect spot to water his horse and bathe before registering for the tourney that would take place tomorrow. Sandor didn’t consider himself a superstitious man, but he always made sure to wash himself thoroughly the day before a tournament, if anything for the relaxation and rest it gave his mind before putting both his money and his armor on the line.

 

There were very few things that could bring a mercenary of his calibre from Sunspear to Winterfell other than a hefty purse and a chance to prove yourself against some of the best fighters on the island. This tournament promised both and Sandor looked forward to seeing how he measured up. There wasn’t much for the second son of a lower lord other than give yourself to the Seven as a septon or to become a soldier of fortune. There had never been a doubt in his mind that he would go for the latter, he had never been a celibate man and drinking -- well it wasn’t something he was eager to give up and get nothing in return. The mercenary life suited Sandor, it was full of action and adventure, where there was a lot of money to be had.

 

Aside from that it allowed him to live his life the way he wanted to, alone. It never ceased to amaze Sandor how few people could really live their lives alone. So many lacked the ability to feel content a world of their own making, that they were constantly seeking out interaction with others. That only brought trouble, so Sandor did his best to stick to himself and avoid personal contact when possible. The scarring on his face certainly helped him in his endeavour and for that he was somehow grateful to his shit older brother for making him that way. It just made it easier to live his life the way he wanted to -- without interference.

 

Dismounting from his horse, Stranger, Sandor tied him up to a limb of the tree and began to remove his armor and clothes. Winterfell was just on the next hill to the north, a cute holdfast if he had to say so. The little town around it was also visible though less so than the imposing structure of the castle.  There was a distinct northern flare to it that Sandor found relaxing. Winterfell castle lacked the opulence and arrogance of southern castles of equal size. It was made of dark stone, a thatched roof and was practical -- much like the Northerners themselves. There was a dignity to that Sandor felt, a focus on common sense that many southern lords had lost touch with.

 

Taking the soap from his saddle bag Sandor was surprised not to see any people at all so close to the village on the day before one of the biggest tournaments in Westeros. It was the name day of Lord Eddard Stark, now several years dead. It was the Lady of Winterfell that continued this tournament in his name. With the years it had grown into a day no Westerosi knight or fighter in his right mind would miss, that was indeed the reason behind it after all. To keep the memory of one of the great lords of Westeros alive.

 

“Well noone will forget your fuckin’ name day, will they mate?” Sandor grinned to himself as he admired the capital of the North as naked as _his_ name day, then jumped in the lake and began to scrub himself.

 

Sandor always started from his head and moved his way down. He was meticulous in his approach, washing first his hair then moving to his face and behind his ears. Then he would move slowly to his shoulders, back, underarms even his nails -- it was important to get all the dirt off and to feel fresh. A tournament could be a new beginning and Sandor preferred to face new beginnings as clean as possible. Depending on the day Sandor might spend a little more time massaging his manhood with the soap, leading to a quick but satisfying release. Today however, was not one of those days, he always preferred to keep his wits about him for a tournament and that meant the heightened aggression and alertness that came with not blowing his load. To finish he would clean between his toes, making sure each one showed its own true color and not that of whatever shithole place he had fought in last. War made him money, he couldn’t deny it, but it also was shit and he’d be damned to carry that with him to the next fight.

 

The sun shone bright on this summer’s day in the North and Sandor laid back in the water to take it all in. There was a certain contemplation, even meditation that did the mind good before battle and this was the perfect place to do it. He let the cool water run over his body, floating on his back while his eyes were closed. It was serene and just perfect...too perfect.  Not so long after he had begun to float in this clear and seemingly bottomless lake he heard the approach of a horse, its hooves hitting the ground in rapid succession.

 

A wave of frustration sweeping over him, Sandor stood to his full height in the water -- its surface stopping well below his belly button around the tuft of hair just above his penis. He needed to make sure it wasn’t some bloody son of a bitch bandit bent on stealing his coin, or a religious man trying to convert him to one thing or another. Sandor’s sword wasn’t far, just on the bank of the lake about two paces to his right. Peering out into the direction of sound of the horse Sandor had to put a hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun. Then he had to blink a few times, just to make sure his eyes weren’t lying to him.

 

It was a woman on horseback, her auburn hair flying wildly -- a braid in the front laced with a dark green ribbon. Her dress was dark green as well, and it flew behind her furiously as she pushed her horse faster in his direction. She was riding in the northern way, without reins, just her fingers laced into the horse’s mane. Worst of all she was pretty, damned pretty. Sandor didn’t dare move from his spot in the water. He was bigger than most and uglier than just about everybody else around him, and it would do him no favors to scare local girl today with either his stature or his nudity. Better she see that he was there, minding his own damn business, be too scared to stay and leave.

 

He hoped anyway.

 

Slightly dashing his hopes she rode right up to where he was, a flush in her cheeks from exertion and a curious grin on her face. The mystery woman eyed first his horse and armor, then lingered a very long time on his body before speaking.

 

“From where do you hail good Ser?” She asked, not one ounce of fear in her voice. This was unusual, as pretty young women typically turned the other way as he walked by. She was certainly different.

 

“I’m no Ser and I hail from nowhere.” He answered, his hands on his hips, doing his best to keep his temper measured. Sandor had no time or desire to entertain a young woman, especially the night before a tournament.

 

To his dismay she smiled even broader at his answer, her blue eyes twinkling in the sunlight. “Ahh, a soldier of fortune then?” There was a hint of playfulness in her voice that didn’t go unnoticed.

 

When he did not answer she continued, “Are you here for the tournament at Winterfell?”

 

Sandor folded his arms across his chest before answering, attempting to make himself bigger and scarier to the young woman in front of him. There was something about the way she was looking at him that was different than anything he had experienced before. There was an unbridled lust in her eyes as she memorized every muscle and every curve of his dripping wet body.

 

Sandor snorted to himself, _‘Well at least I know what a pretty whore feels like in a tavern.’_ That was something he had never counted on feeling before.

 

He kept his eyes fixed on the red head. “Aye. And who are you?” Sandor asked not masking his frustration from her at all.

 

A playful grin crossed her face as she answered him, “I’m nobody of consequence. Just a handmaid in need of her daily swim.”

 

She made to get off her horse and Sandor spoke up, “I found this lake first and you can swim in it when I’m done. But I was looking for some peace and quiet, and all you’ve been doing is making words come out of that pretty mouth of yours.”

 

Something in Sandor’s gut was telling him the situation was off. Not in the ambush sense of the word, but in her own reaction to him. He was intentionally being rude and offish, that was his number one way of getting what he wanted. The bigger you are and the more ass-hole you are, the more people decided it wasn’t worth the effort to argue with you. This red-headed woman on the other hand, seemed to have not one shred of fear for him or even concern at his negative tone. His tatics only emboldened her, stoking her natural curiosity further than he had wanted -- or needed.

 

The beautiful woman merely cocked her head to the side, still looking at him with a penetrating gaze. “Then I believe we may have a problem here.” Her voice was even and confident, uncommon for a woman of her age.

 

She continued, a mischievous look in her sparkling blue eyes. “You see, my mistress owns this land. All that you can see belongs to her. She owns the tree your horse stands under, she owns this lake you are in, that castle there and...the entire North. It is her tournament to which you go, her food you will eat and her prize money you may or may not take home.”

 

 _‘Damn it to the Seven Hells.’_ Sandor thought as she said it, his red headed adversary had a look of triumph on her face.

 

“So if you would like to stay on her good side, I believe you will have to bare the burden of my company.” The young woman smirked, sitting back on her saddle waiting for his reply.

 

Sandor had one last trick up his sleeve, puffing his chest out a bit and putting his hands back on his hips. “A pretty girl like you isn’t afraid a man like me would fuck you bloody and throw your body in this bloody lake?”

 

At that she laughed as if he’d told some kind of extremely funny joke, crossed her arms over the front of her saddle and leaned in toward him - as if she wanted nobody else to hear their conversation. “I fear nobody in these lands. For I know my mistress would send a thousand swords and a thousand horses to find the man who would hurt or kill me. Even a man as,” she paused while trying to find the right word, “...as capable as you would tire after the nine hundred and ninety eighth opponent. Then she might send this man to the Boltons to be flayed, my mistress is not known for weakness when it comes to enforcing the law I can assure you.”

 

She paused to take the measure of him, then continued. “So no I don’t fear you. All that I fear is that you will have to share this lake with me whether you wish it or not.” It was the way that she raised her eyebrow that gave him the feeling that she was doing her best to push his buttons.

 

And she certainly was.

 

An anger rose in him then, it wasn’t often anyone called his bluff, particularly a woman. Knowing he was beaten Sandor opened his arms and gestured to the lake in a sarcastic fashion, as if it were all hers. Then turned and went about his business.

 

 _‘Perhaps if I just don’t look at her she’ll shut the hell up.’_ Were his only thoughts as he swam out awkwardly toward the middle of the small lake.

 

It wasn’t long before he heard a gentle splash and could hear the sound of water moving toward him. Swimming right past him, at speed, was the red headed woman in nothing but a soaked through white sleeveless undershirt and some white small clothes. As she buzzed past, Sandor wondered how somebody could even swim that fast, or would want to. He himself could only just barely make his way, but she was like a fish in the water. Her auburn hair trailing behind her, her little ass coming out of the water occasionally -- it was going to be hard to take his eyes off her and to quiet his growing erection at the same time.

 

 _‘No sense in hiding it.’_ He thought to himself as the scandalous idea that she might even wrap her legs around his waist in the water and beg him to take her crossed his mind.

 

 _‘Focus.’_ He reminded himself. ‘ _No sense in losing your head over a girl. With the money from this tournament, you can buy a hundred girls that pretty.’_

 

But somehow he knew he couldn’t. There was something in her, her confidence -- her will that drew Sandor to her. It was unusual and intriguing all at once.

 

That didn’t help the fact that every time she swam by where Sandor was lazily floating his eyes would follow her until they couldn’t any more and every time she would come back they would do the same. His thoughts continuously moving to all the dirty things he’d like to do to her, to how she might feel sliding herself over his cock. Finally, after quite a bit of time, the red headed woman made her way back to the shore to the tree where both his gear and her saddle bags were.

 

“I can teach you how to swim you know...if you need it.” She was standing in the water but it was only knee deep. Her red hair covered one breast the other light pink nipple was barely visible through the soaked through white cloth of her shirt. The last thing he needed her to do was get close to him.

 

“No, don’t need it.” Sandor managed to say happy that his voice hadn’t caught in his throat at her offer.

 

 _‘Though I do need somebody to handle this massive erection for me.’_ He rolled his eyes to himself as he did his best to control his mutunious cock.

 

“Ok.” She answered as she walked out of the water, her pert little ass swaying in the warm air. She was going to sun herself now, lay all her little goodies out for him to admire.

 

 _‘Fuck me!’_ Sandor admonished himself.

 

She knew what she was doing to him, of that he had no doubt. Sandor just couldn’t understand why on earth would she want to. He was not a good looking man, he never had been. The only time women had ever taken that much interest in him was when he had just won a big thick purse of gold, then the whores started to use all their charms. This woman was different. Her interest wasn’t in gold at all, it was something more. Something that oddly captivated Sandor to the point of making him consider breaking his rule of minimizing human contact.

 

Figuring she was sticking around for a bit of a show anyway, given the way she had been eyeing him earlier, Sandor swam to the bank of the lake and slowly got out of the water. He wasn’t facing her outright, that would have been far too obvious. He was, however, at enough of an angle where she could spy his half hard manhood with water trickling down it if she wanted to. Taking a long moment to run his fingers through his long hair and tie it up, Sandor made his way to his trousers and slowly put them on, tucking himself tightly inside. When he turned to walk toward the tree to join her, he knew right away had been anything but a modest young lady. That little smirk on her lips told him what she coveted, and for once in his life it was him.

 

 _‘She’s naughty. I bet she’d be a fantastic fuck under this tree.’_ The pure thought made him harder as he sat down a reasonable distance from her, allowing the sun to dry his wet body.

 

She had not yet put her dress back on, instead choosing to remain in her drenched and rather see through small clothes.

 

 _‘This has to be a dream.’_ Sandor mused, still eyeing the beauty next to him. _‘I’ll wake up in some Maester’s recovery room one week after the tournament has ended.’_ He chuckled lightly at that thought.

 

They were silent for a long while, staring up at the puffy clouds, then out of the blue she spoke. “What’s your name non-Ser?”

 

“Sandor Clegane, the Hound.” He said, not looking over at her at all.

 

“Clegane? Humm a minor house of the Westerlands right? Three dogs black on yellow?”

 

She seemed to know her shit with regard to houses, his was usually so small it was not taught to lords and ladies.

 

“Aye.” He answered.

 

She turned on her side then, facing him, her hand supporting her head, her other hand on her bare belly completely at ease. “So Sandor Clegane, how do you expect you will win this tournament?”

 

There was a playfulness in the way she said it, but a genuine curiosity too. One that provoked Sandor to mumble more than just a few words as he normally would have done. “Tournaments are won when you have your ears open and you keep your mouth shut.”

 

Her face contorted into a confused expression to which he then slowly answered. “If you are confident in your fighting abilities and have experience it then becomes a mental game.”

 

Seeing that she was quite interested, her bedroom blue eyes expectantly staring at him, and his naked chest, with her complete attention he continued. “Knights like to talk and blab, and then you can figure out their weaknesses. Some like their drink, others have so much nervous energy they fuck it away when they think they are going to win. It’s about studying them carefully and waiting.”

 

His red headed young lady smiled broadly, giving him a good look over again -- her eyes lingering on his cock for a moment before she spoke. “Well Clegane, it seems you are full of surprises. A man that is strong of body, will and mind is a rarity indeed.”

 

He almost felt like she would reach out and touch him, but she didn’t. Instead she was content to look him over one last time before looking up at the sun. “It’s late, they will worry if I am not back at the castle.”

 

She got up quickly, grabbing her dress and wrapped it around herself. It was a sort of robe style dress, something Sandor hadn’t seen before but it was practical for a woman who just wanted to bathe and redress quickly. She gathered her things and mounted her horse. “I wish you the best of luck non-Ser Clegane. But you must hurry, the registration ends at sunset and you still have a way to ride. I will tell my mistress of you, I’m sure she will be intrigued.”

 

Before Sandor even had the chance to ask her name, she had vanished -- a cloud of dirt and grass kicked up by her rapidly retreating horse. He wondered if he would ever see her again. Not that Winterfell was so huge that it was not possible, but just if their paths would ever again cross in a meaningful way.

 

 _‘I hope we do.’_ He thought to himself, a strange feeling flooding his body.

 

Sandor couldn’t put his finger on it, but he was sure that his uninvited guest was not telling the whole truth. For all that she had talked, she had said very little. He realized only now that she knew more about him and he did about her.

 

 _‘Clever girl.’_ He smirked to himself as he put on his clothes and got on his horse. She had been a nice distraction, but now it was time to get serious about how he would fare tomorrow. Sandor was in this tournament, and he was in it to win.

  



	2. The Plot Thickens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor makes it to Winterfell, where he receives some very interesting information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note on the chapter beforehand. Everytime I think of Sansa riding up on Sandor naked in the lake I can only think of Etta James singing, "I Just Want to Make Love to You." Our girl is smitten, of that there is no doubt. 
> 
> This chapter just advances the plot line so we have something to work with. Next chapter our fave pair will meet again!

#  Chapter 2:  The Plot Thickens

 

Sandor reached Winterfell just before the registration closed, which was how he liked it. Some contestants would obsessively review the list of names that would be renewed every few hours -- he prefered to be unannounced. Not that his reputation preceeded him per se, but he had no desire to deal with the extra shit that came from being a mercenary in a knight’s tournament. It only riled up his temper and made it more likely he do something stupid -- such as punch a knight’s face through a brick wall.

 

Making his way to the main tavern of the town, where rooms were reserved for the contestants, Sandor got a feeling for just how big the tournament had become. The small town and this small tavern were bursting at the seams. No matter where he turned, Sandor could hear the laughing, joking and verbal fighting of the people around him. Tournaments were a festive time for the small folk, many came in from the countryside several day’s ride to see one -- so it wasn’t surprising to Sandor just annoying. 

 

_ ‘You wanted to do this, so now you have to deal with it.’ _ Sandor reminded himself as he pushed through the crowded tavern, got some ale and surveyed the packed room. 

 

Now was the best time to take stock of who was there and what state they were in. Thoros was already drunk in the corner, while one southern knight, whose name Sandor couldn’t remember, had two tavern wenches on his knees. 

 

_ ‘Seems like I’ll have to pack cotton in my blasted ears tonight.’ _ Sandor mused as he found a seat in the back of the tavern, next to an older yet fit man. 

 

By the looks of him the man was probably a smith, or at least had been. Smiths worked in castles and in armories, Sandor had a good suspicion he might be able to get some information out of this man if he wasn’t already too far in his cups.

 

“This seat taken?” Sandor asked over the roar of the drunken, yet jovial crowd.

 

The older man looked him up and down a moment, then motioned he take a seat. Sandor sipped his ale a bit, monitoring the crowd and putting faces to names. He half hoped to see the young woman from the lake this afternoon, and half hoped he didn’t. It would be his luck that she was some sort of high end whore seated on a little prince’s lap. Just the thought of seeing her with another man stirred a feeling in Sandor that he was not very familiar with.

 

_ ‘Focus.’  _ He reminded himself.  _ ‘She’s distracting you, when you should be getting information.’ _

 

Inhaling deeply so as to steady the furious beating of his own heart, Sandor turned to the old man sitting next to him.

 

“You smithin’ for this tournament?’ He asked casually, trying to see if he was up for talking.

 

The older man looked Sandor over, pushing his grey hair out of his face. “Yeah, I am.”

 

“So...heard anything interesting?” Sandor smirked and took a drink from his cup. 

 

The older man eyed him a moment, as if to determine if Sandor had the coin, then shrugged his shoulders, “I hear lots of interestin’ things, but my memory ain’t what it used to be.” 

 

Sandor knew this game well, knowing that all good information came at a price. The old smith continued, “Silver Stags help you know -- put me in the right mood for rememberin’”

 

Raising an eyebrow Sandor put his mug on the table, “I gotta know if your information is worth that money. And I won’t know that until I’ve heard it.” He paused, “I’ll give you five coppers now, five later and at the end one stag.”

 

The smith rumpled his brow a bit as if almost offended, “No no, that’ll never do. Three coppers now and two stags later.”

 

Smiling Sandor nodded and counted out three coppers from his purse. Grinning the old man began, “About a week ago her Ladyship upped the tournament winnings to ten thousand golden dragons and a...uh...evening in her company.” The older man gave this kind of smile that implied sex.

 

Perplexed, Sandor cocked his head to the side. “Why in the bloody seven hells would she do that?” He asked.

 

“Rumor has it, that she wants to attract more fighters to the tournament. They say that on his deathbed Lord Stark promised her to Lord Glover, and let’s just say her Ladyship was not pleased.” The older man leaned in, as if what he was talking about could get them both killed.

 

Sandor shook his head, “Lord Stark died three years ago, it can’t be that’s true.” The laws of Westeros were fairly clear on the matter, when it came to the marriage of highborn women to highborn men...or any man for that matter. It sounded like a tall tale not worth two silver stags.

 

“No no laddie, that’s where you’re wrong.” The old smith smiled and continued, “Lady Stark had already been married once, but through a series of  _ unfortunate _ events had to have her first husband executed. Gruesome stuff.” The old man wrinkled up his face as if he were disgusted by blood.

 

Smirking at the remark, Sandor urged the man to continue. “Her ailing father couldn’t bare to have her without a husband -- so on his deathbed he promised her to him...though some say that Lord Glover manipulated it.”

 

“That happens every fucking day, so why is it such a big deal?” Sandor challenged. 

 

At that the old smith grinned widely and drank from his cup. “You don’t know her Ladyship then. Had she been born a boy, she would be ruling all of Westeros by now. She’s tough, far tougher than many of the men here today,” the old man looked Sandor over, “even you I’d say. She didn’t take kindly to it, not in the least. But since her father died without setting the terms…”

 

Sandor was all ears now, the plot was thickening and it was more than interesting. The old man continued, “...she strung it out as long as possible. Finally she promised Lord Glover she would marry him only if he won this here tourney.”

 

Laughing at her cunning, Sandor drank deep from his cup and surveyed the room. “And who is this infamous Lord Glover?”

 

“It’s hard to tell lad, sometimes I have trouble remembering faces…” The old man’s voice trailed off.

 

Sandor rolled his eyes and popped him two extra coppers. “Oh yeah...now it’s coming back to me. He’s that pretty blonde lad over there.”

 

Following the finger of the older man across the room, Sandor’s eyes landed on a pretty looking knight, one who was laughing and joking with some other knight looking individuals. He didn’t look particularly big or strong, but he’d grown up in a castle so he’d probably been raised with a sword in his hand.

 

“How good is he?” Sandor asked the smith.

 

“I’d be weary of him, he’s probably the best fighter here tonight. That’s why Lady Stark is so keen to get as many fighters in the tournament as possible -- it’s a numbers game lad.”

 

_ ‘Humm…’ _ Sandor pondered the man’s words a moment as he looked Lord Glover over from afar. He would have to keep his wits about him, he would have to see to it that the tournament was fair -- knights who felt entitled to win often cheated their way to it. Sandor would have none of that.

 

_ ‘Ten thousand golden dragons.’ _ He mulled the number over in his head. 

 

“One more question old man.” Sandor handed him another copper, knowing by now his new found “friend” would be keen for more. “Has Gregor Clegane come for this tournament?”

 

Sandor had to know if his brother was here, and just because he didn’t see him didn’t mean he wasn’t there. It has been so many years since they had faced one another in combat, he needed to prepare himself for the chance that it might happen in the next few days.

 

At this question the old smith nearly spat out his ale, “Where in the bloody seven hells have you been living son? Under a damn rock?” 

 

Seeing that Sandor wasn’t going to answer his rhetorical questions the man continued, “Gregor Clegane, the mountain that rides...well he’s dead.”

 

_ ‘Dead.’ _ The word rang in Sandor’s ears over and over again. He was clearly shocked as the old man shook him by the shoulder.

 

“How did it happen?” Sandor asked, almost pissed he hadn’t been there to do it himself or at least see it in person.

 

“Funny story that one.” The old man began, a bit of a smile on his face. Sandor’s brother was a brutal man and his reputation had won him no supporters in Westeros. So it didn’t surprise him that even a man here in the North would rejoice at his brother’s untimely passing.

 

“Seems he beat the shit out of a whore on the Iron Isles. Then the next night he was lured by her younger sister and she managed to slice his cock clean off in the middle of him taking care of his business. The bastard bled to death in her room, cockless and screaming bloody murder. That was about six months ago.”

 

At this Sandor laughed outright and clinked glasses with the smith. “That would have been a sight.”

 

The smith added, “Seems they can’t find his younger brother to take over his lands. But I gotta say, you kinda look like…”

 

At that Sandor knew he had overstayed his welcome, handing the smith two silver stags he clopped him on the shoulder and went to his room.

 

Taking off his clothes, Sandor layed on the straw mattress with this hands behind his head. His mind was awash with what he had heard - he would need time to take it all in. Sandor was not one for politics, but it seemed he was slowly being dragged into something. His mind flashed back to the young lady at the lake, she had said she was the handmaid of her Ladyship. 

 

_ ‘That explains her attitude…and the fact that she knew my house.’  _ Sandor mused. If her Mistress was indeed as strong as the old man claimed, she would probably empower all the women around her as such. 

 

When it was all said and done, Sandor was only interested in the purse and perhaps getting his lands back - though that would be a battle in and of itself. Winning this tournament might be a springboard of sorts to achieving that goal. He’d need an army probably and a name that some people would want to follow...and money.  Slowly Sandor was settling in, allowing sleep to take him. If he won this tournament, he’d ask her Ladyship for help getting his lands instead of the gold. If she refused, then he’d take the gold and perhaps ask for a night with both the Lady of Winterfell and her lady in waiting. 

 

He laughed at this idea, knowing his mind was running away with him. 

 

_ ‘Focus on the purse and the notoriety. Then see.’ _ Those were the last things Sandor Clegane thought of before he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.


	3. A Bit of Unbid Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tournament begins and Sandor stumbles across some nefarious plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been ages since I updated this story and I'm so sorry. Usually I hate leaving things so long, but something had to give with work and like writing 3 stories simultaneously ;-) I hope you like this next chapter there's a nice bit of play in here.
> 
> Also, for those of you who care, the reason this has taken so long is I'm using this story as a way to train myself for the next part of the War of Southern Occupation. This is the first time I've ever written exclusively from Sandor's point of view and I need to try out things in my head....and try to not make him too female in his emotions and feelings. It's more of a challenge for me than expected.
> 
> Enjoy!

#  **Chapter 3: An Unbid Bit of Advice**

The downside of advertising a Tourney with a huge purse and certain  _ perks _ , was that every idiot and his bloody dog had signed up for it. Sandor wiped the sweat from his brow as he watched the afternoon melee and smirked to himself. The quality on the first day of the tournament had been and would most likely stay, horrible.

_ ‘Well if she wants to drag Glover through the mud, then she’s found a fucking fantastic way to do it.’ _ Sandor leaned on the fence and took in the cooling breeze. Some tournaments were about skill -- two fighters of a similar calibre fighting it out for the enjoyment of others. Other tournaments were about fitness -- a war of attrition if one could put it like that -- with so many fights this particular tournament was more about the last man standing than skill.

 

_ ‘She must believe Glover can win it, otherwise she would not have tried to pull so many here.’ _ Sandor mulled this thought over as he watched on. The more Glover fought the more chances he had to get injured, and if you don’t want somebody to win then ‘injured’ is a good thing.

The two clowns in front of him had no idea how to swing a sword, as a matter of fact he wasn’t so sure that the tall skinny one had a sword made out of steel. A wooden sword at a bloody contest like this was laughable, but then again the prize was enough to make a man do crazy things. He grinned at the thought of the red head he had met the day before.

_ ‘I’d do some crazy things with that little bird.’  _ He mused as chips from the wooden sword went flying, hitting the guy next to him and nearly taking his eye out.

The box of the Queen of the North had been empty all day, so he had not been able to glimpse either her or her handmaid. To say he wasn’t a bit disappointed would have been a bold-faced lie, and Sandor was shite at that kind of thing. He wanted to see her again, prove to himself that she hadn’t just been playing with him – but that she had a genuine interest having him near her -- or in her, both were fine by him and anything but mutually exclusive.

A lull in the fighting gave Sandor the opportunity to go take a piss out back. He’d seen more or less what he had needed to see – sized up a few knights and had a glimpse or two of Glover in battle. He was good, as the old man had told him, but not impossible to beat. Difficult for sure, but not impossible. Lost in thought of exactly how a victory over the ‘golden boy’ of the tournament might be possible, Sandor sauntered over behind some of the tents to a small river. He unlaced his britches haphazardly as he played some jousting scenarios in his head, mostly oblivious to what was going on around him.

_ ‘Fuuuuck.’ _ He thought as he let the stream of piss flow from his body. He’d been keeping that in there longer than expected, the sweet relief of it all was a huge weight off his shoulders.

His focus slowly drifted from his gargantuan stream of pee to the murmur of voices from the other side of a tree near him. Sandor couldn’t have said why the voices were all the sudden interesting, just that something about how they were talking had peaked his curiosity. Leaning his good ear over slightly, he began to listen in.

“There’s not too many men who could beat you Ser.” A young man’s adolescent high-pitched voice said. Clearly a squire of some kind.

“Well well Cummens let’s not get too full of ourselves.” The other man’s voice was dripping with sarcasm, Sandor snorted in amusement. “I’m not apt to lose Lady Sansa’s hand to this motley lot of tossers. Her plans have backfired, she’s only managed to draw idiots and half-wits to this tourney.”

At this both men laughed and when their laughter had quieted the squire spoke again. “So how did you acquire...  _ it _ ? You know the…”

Before he could finished Glover hushed him, “Who knows I may not even need to use it.” The fair knight boasted. “The only man who could even think of unseating me would be that dreadful hedge knight the…what was it again, the Dog?”

 

Sandor smirked at this admission, all ears as to how that son of a bitch knight planned to fanagle his way into winning the Lady of Winterfell. If there was one thing Sandor hated more than knights, it was cheating scheming knights -- Glover clearly fell into the latter group.

“The Hound, Ser.” The squire corrected gently, then piped up, “But he’s no knight Ser, he’s just a mercenary.”

A condescending laugh escaped Glover’s mouth at those words, “So then there’s really no use for it then. Though perhaps we should do him a favor and put him out of his misery. With a face like that…” There was a pause in the conversation as the two men continued to laugh at their own horribly unfunny jokes.

“When I finally win Lady Sansa’s hand, I’ll be nice to her for a while. Get her used to married life, then…” Sandor could hear slapping noises coming from the other side of the tree, and it angered him as he put his cock back in his pants. “…I’ll show her who really runs the show. She’ll be sporting black eyes and a swollen belly for the rest of her days.”

The direction the conversation was going disgusted Sandor _ , ‘Her Ladyship isn’t going to like that very much, is she?’ _ He couldn’t say for sure, but if she was anything like the old man at the tavern had said – and anything like her handmaid, she would be as furious as Sandor – probably more so.

Deciding, against his better judgement, to take a stroll along the other side of the tree, Sandor approached the two men casually. Halting all conversation, they immediately lost their carefree cunt smiles and stared at him threateningly. Sandor merely stretched out his arms as if he’d just gotten up from a long nap and was enjoying the sweet summer air, but his stare was knowing. If there was one think Sandor liked more than fighting, it was making cunts like this feel uncomfortable. Now they were going to sit there and squirm, wondering what he had overheard and what not.

Finally, Glover broke the long and uncomfortable silence. “Just like a dog to piss somewhere he doesn’t belong.”

Smirking Sandor responded, “You like to run your mouth pretty, but can you use your sword like me?” The slight reference to sexual pleasure crept into his voice, making Glover burn red with anger.

Unsure and caught off guard, Glover and his squire merely laughed uncomfortably at Sandor’s words. So Sandor took this as an opportunity to drive the point home. Walking up to them, he eyed them both for good measure and dramatic effect. Once he had loomed there under the shade tree enough, Sandor picked the squire out – putting his huge palm around the back of his neck.

“If I see or even hear of something fishy going on in this tournament, I’m blaming you.” His eyes were narrowed, his voice low and his tone threatening. Sandor couldn’t hide the fact that he got some sort of enjoyment about watching the little squire squirm in his grasp, a clear message being sent to both him and his ‘master.’

Sandor let his words sink in, giving both men scowl that he surely knew would haunt them. Then he walked back toward the tournament. There was no doubt that, from this point on, Sandor would have to watch his back. He had cast the first stone in a high stakes game that he had not been intent on playing until just now. But he hated cunts like that, and he hated knights even more – he wouldn’t just stand there and let them think they could do as they pleased. It hadn’t been surprising that Glover was planning to cheat to get what he wanted, particularly when his prize was power and influence. But Sandor just couldn’t be sure how and that made him uneasy.

_ ‘It’s something deadly, or so it might seem.’ _ Glover was a Northman and had more power here than he would have further south _. ‘I’ll have to sleep with one eye open, but then again, when I have not? There’s nobody I can trust here, except maybe her.’ _

 

His mind went yet again to the woman at the lake. He’d met her before he had gotten caught up in this plot so hopefully she had no ties to Glover -- perhaps she hated him as much as her mistress. Grinning to himself Sandor made his way back to his meager room at the inn.

As the first day of the tournament came to a close, and the wounded and bottom third of the contestants were filtered out, Sandor kept a good watch on what was going on around him. Tourney camps were full of gossip and debauchery and he would have to keep an eye out if he was going to continue on to the final rounds.

* * *

 

The second day of the tournament had promised more action and by the gods it had delivered. Sandor had never won, much less competed in, so many tilts in one day. There was something to be loathed when it came to jousting. It was a ‘rich man’s’ sport in Sandor’s eyes, one you never ever used in battle. Though, due to the fact that it looked nice and one could gloat in front of an adoring crowd, it was a necessary evil of competing in a tournament. Worse than that it was fucking dangerous. One of hedge knights had been pierced in the neck by a flying shard of wood and bled out on the jousting grounds. Another’s horse had been hit by a lance, causing the animal to fall and crush the leg of that knight. 

 

_ ‘Fucking cunts the lot of them.’  _ Sandor shook his head as he drank some fresh water from his wineskin. 

 

They were waiting for the results to be put up, for the final names  to be known. These ten men would be honored in Winterfell castle with a feast, a feather bed and a good night’s sleep before the real work began. There was an excitement in the crowd that was hard to not get caught up in. Sure, those men who had done poorly, or were injured -- possibly dead -- weren't there. But there were plenty of hearts left to be broken as the small crowd waited impatiently. 

 

When the tournament master did finally make his way through the crowd, nailing the piece of parchment to the wall and walking away abruptly, Sandor didn’t need to stand on the tips of his toes to read the names of lucky few. What stuck out most in his mind was that her Ladyship had chosen Melee for the final round, something that clearly played to his strengths. Sandor stifled a small hope that his little auburn bird might have helped bring her lady to that decision and continued to read the names. He was on there, of that there was little doubt. Sandor had always done well at tournaments, even if he wasn’t a crowd pleaser. He didn’t give a shit to please anyone other than his own purse. 

 

Snorting at the thought, Sandor’s eyes ran over the names. Glover was on there, that was to be expected. Along with a Ser Loras of Highgarden, two Dornish knights of little matter, Bolten’s bastard, a Karstark boy, a handful of hedge knights and him -- the mercenary Dog as they had come to call him. Names had never mattered much to Sandor and if they all thought he could be beaten because some lordling with a sword hadn’t touched his shoulders and made him a knight, then all the better.

 

Sandor didn’t have to do much to move his things from the small inn he had been staying at to his temporary quarters in Winterfell castle. There was a freedom to traveling light and he had mastered that long ago. Sandor had very few prized possessions other than his coin and a small keepsake from his mother that he kept stuffed in his boot. Leading Stranger into the barn, Sandor make sure the stable boy knew how to handle is tired, moody and huge war horse. He was not an easy animal in the best of times and after so many jousts he was in a particularly foul mood. The young man looked at both Sandor and his animal with fear, not knowing which to be more afraid of, then finally decided he had better chances of winning against the horse. He took the raging beast with him into the stables, where a good drink and some sleep would do the animal some good.

 

Then it was time to Sandor to be lead to his room. Accomodation for the night with a feast later that evening. Perhaps then he would finally get to see the ravishing redhead who had invaded his mind. His spirits higher than he normally allowed, Sandor surveyed his room in Winterfell and was satisfied. The room had a large feather bed, certainly better than anything he had slept on in ages. There was a fireplace with a chair, a desk and most importantly a huge tub waiting to be filled with water. Handing his armor to the boy for a cleaning, Sandor took to the chair near the fire and began to look over his sword -- making sure the good side of his face was turned to the door. There was no sense in scaring the kitchen maids more than necessary.

 

Almost as if on cue, four blushing chatty kitchen maids came through the door, buckets of warm water in each hand. Sandor eyed them from where he sat, never the man to be trust just anybody. Particularly since he and Glover had had words the other day, he couldn’t be too careful when it came to food, drink and women. All could be dangerous. The women eyed him too, but for different reasons. It wasn’t uncommon that a knight or fighter could grab up a pretty kitchen maid for the night if he were so inclined. Sandor was not, and as one of them threw him a wink he gently shook his head and turned back to sharpening his sword for battle tomorrow.

 

Once the last bucket had been poured, the tub full nearly to the brim, Sandor put his sword down. He tested the water with his hand, scalding hot just like he liked it. It didn’t matter that there was no soap or brush with which to get the deep dirt off of his body, the warm water would serve his aching muscles best. Removing his boots and dropping his trousers, Sandor went to remove his tunic over his head. That was when the door opened and he was caught with his shirt over his head and non weapon. In a flash he ripped the garment from his arms, tearing it down one of the seams and balled up his fists -- ready to meet his opponent. It was instinct really, kicking in before his brain had a chance to remind him where he was.

 

What met his eyes was not the opponent he had envisioned. She wore an amused smirk on her face, an eyebrow lifted her eyes taking in his naked and worn body shamelessly. There was no way to stop his mouth from hanging open at the sight of her, the redheaded woman he had met two days past was there -- as if he were in a dream. She held a bucket in her hand with a bar of soap, a jar and a brush.

 

She spoke first, for all words failed to make their way from his throat. “The melee competition starts tomorrow Clegane -- best not to deplete your strength wrestling me.”

 

Her words broke the tension in the air. Grumbling to himself he got in the tub, not caring what she saw or how half hard his dick was becoming. She was looking at him in that way again, that hungry predatory type way a big cat might look at a small rabbit -- only there was almost no way she could overpower him.

 

_ ‘Maybe she likes the challenge, or maybe she’s been sent here for other purposes.’ _ Sandor reminded himself that he could trust no one, perhaps not even her.

 

“My Lady sends her regards and the orders that I am to clean and massage you in advance of tomorrow.” There was a triumphant gaze that fell on him now, but what she had won he wasn’t exactly sure. It made him suspicious.

 

“The Lady of Winterfell hasn’t been at the tournament at all the last two days, why all the sudden does she take an interest now?”

 

Her demeanor changed, the teasing smile she wore left her face. It was the shape her eyes took as if she were trying to interpret the meaning of what he was actually saying that evoked a curiosity in Sandor. It made him feel more naked than he was. “What’s happened to make you so cautious?”

 

She stayed where she was, not approaching him until he was ok with it. As if he were some wild animal that could pounce on her at any moment. When he didn’t respond she stared at him a moment longer than put the bucket down. Unknotting the sash around her waist she opened her dress, her black colored small clothes hung tight to her peachy white skin. It left very little to the imagination.

 

“I’m not armed.” She said seriously, making sure he got a good look at her. “This is soap.” She motioned to the bar below. “And this is for your muscles.” She bent down and opened the jar, putting some of the cream on her own skin. “No harm will come to you, not from me anyway.”

 

She was a keen observer, the moment he relaxed a gentle smile came back to her face. There was something more to her than met the eye, and Sandor wasn’t just thinking of what was under her small clothes. Wrapping herself back up in her dress his little wash maid came to the tub, pulled up a stool and got to work. Working the soap up into a good lather in her hands she first went to wetting his hair and shoulders - her fingers dancing lightly over his body. There was nothing hiding his manhood from her view, save a bit of darkness in the room and some water.

 

_ ‘But isn’t that just the way she planned it?’ _ Sandor mused to himself. 

 

“You mercenaries are a dirty lot.” She teased, pulling some pieces of wood and probably bone from his long dark hair.

 

Snorting at her remark, Sandor sank lower in the tub relaxing his guard a little bit. “I haven’t seen either hide or hair of your Lady...or you since the start of the tournament.” He said as casually as possible, enjoying the gentle head massage she was giving him.

 

“Is that a hint of jealousy I detect Clegane?” He knew she was teasing him, but he knew she was right too. There had been more than a few occasions where he had wondered what she was doing, and if she was doing it with a man. 

 

Keeping silent he sat up so she could gain better access to his back. Using the brush she began to scrub him vigorously, as if the dirt had infiltrated all the layers of skin he had down to his bones.

 

“Well you can rest assured that the tournament has been more work than either I or my Lady had considered.” He turned then to see her smiling and she ran the brush under his neck and around his stubble. “Aside from that, I believe my Lady is far too nervous about the outcome of the tournament to have watched it from the beginning.”

 

She made her way over his chest, seemingly enjoying his thick layer of hair there as she made her way down to his stomach. Gods if he’d have been a smart man, he would have let her wank him off right there in the tub. Feeling her little hands around his manhood, perhaps even enticing her mouth to play along. But no, somehow Sandor always managed to take situations like these and fuck them up. Grabbing both of her hands around the wrists as she made her way down his abs, he stopped her downward momentum. Instead taking the soap and the brush from her.

 

“We’re not that good of friends yet.” He whispered, not sure he could trust her completely just yet.

 

To his surprise she seemed to like this little game they were playing, for she smirked ever so slightly, kissed him on the cheek and made her way to his bed. As Sandor finished the rest of his body, giving his swollen head one or two nice rubs as she bent over, he watched her lay out a towel. Then she took the jar of cream and put it on the bedside table where she waited patiently for him to finish. Her hands were crossed so primly in her lap, one might mistake her for a Lady herself.

 

Sandor took his time to put the soap on the stool together with the brush, signaling to her that he was ready to get out and she had better turn around. But she didn’t, she sat there no semblance of modesty or girly shyness. His cock was not somewhat hard or half hard now, it was at full mast and she knew it. She was a woman that knew what she wanted, and wasn’t afraid to let him know. 

 

_ ‘Now I know what a pretty tavern whore feels like.’ _ He thought to himself again.

 

Sighing ever so slightly Sandor rose from the tub, the water falling from his body. Even in the dimness of the room he could see the corners of her mouth twitch with desire. There was no doubt that she liked him now, none at all -- there was also no doubt that she liked  _ it _ big. It was amusing to see a woman so open about her desires, laid bare for him to read. Yet there was something about her that wasn’t laid bare, something he was even more intent on uncovering -- her name and who she was. 

 

Considering this a while, Sandor dried himself off then walked to the bed. “Get on your stomach.” She ordered, with a bit more authority than a handmaid probably should.

 

Sandor did as he was bid though, not unwilling to have a beautiful woman roam his body with her hands -- or any other body part for that matter. He heard her dress drop to the floor and felt the weight of her body on his -- she was straddling him at the lower back, the warmth coming through her small clothes from her cunt was arousing -- intoxicating if one could say so. Exhaling Sandor could feel her walk her hands up and down the sides of his spine, searching for knots and getting a general feel for the landscape of his body. She could have just been feeling him up too, it was hard to say for a soldier who had not been privy to such treatment in the past. Either way, how could he protest with a sexy little minx on his back? Her peachy white thighs were hugging his hips, not helping his erection go down in the least.

 

Not knowing what one did in such situations, massaging being a more northern custom, Sandor decided to fill the silence. If only for the satisfaction of hearing her voice.  “So her Ladyship fears the outcome of the tournament, huh? I guess those hedge knights  _ are _ a motley lot.”

 

He was prodding her of course, trying to see if what he had heard in the tavern had any basis in reality. 

 

His redheaded companion laughed softly, “No no. Hedge knights are easy, you simply fill them up with wine and food. Then their cocks stop working, they pass out and ….a night with her Ladyship is over.”

 

Sandor couldn’t help but chuckle at her words, she wasn’t wrong by any stretch of the imagination. It made him wonder what the Lady of Winterfell had in store for him if he won. Though if he could be completely honest with himself, he wasn’t interested in the Lady at all -- but the woman astride him her hands gliding over his back and shoulders.

 

“Well I’m sure you’ve heard why she is so keen to have as many fighters as possible here.” The redhead continued, now dipping her hands in the herbal cream. Now she was probing him for information.

 

Doing his best to act innocent, which he was total schite at, Sandor responded. “No.”

 

Her fingers were working through his shoulders now, her hands strong and her pressure just right to relieve his aching muscles. But he could tell she was amused, not the least bit mislead by his poor answer to her assumption. 

 

Leaning down over him, her hair resting against his shoulders, her breasts nearly touching his back she spoke into his ear as if telling a deep and dirty little secret. “My Lady would prefer her betrothed not win -- she has no love for him and no desire to share her kingdom with a self absorbed lordling.”

 

_ ‘Praise the Seven.’ _ Sandor thought sarcastically as the young handmaid confirmed what he already knew.

 

“She puts her faith in men like you to prevent that from happening.” The young woman said, before sitting up an continuing with her work. “He has a weakness you know.” She proffered, seeing if he would bite.

 

“Aside from cheating?” Sandor retorted sarcastically. 

 

Snorting to herself, the woman continued rubbing his back a moment in silence as if pondering something to herself -- though what Sandor could not say. “Cheating is punishable by death in the North. So I would hope he does nothing to incur the wrath of her Ladyship. But if I can give you a bit of unbid advice?”

 

“Sure.” Sandor replied, his ears were perked to listen even as his body fell victim to her strong and alluring touch.

 

“Put something shiny on your armor. Glover thinks highly of his looks and it might be that he looks at himself in the reflection even during the heat of battle.”

 

“Like a bloody parrot?” Sandor lifted his head and turned back, just enough to see her out of the corner of his eye.

 

The handmaid could only grin, “Yeah, something like that.”

 

At this admission Sandor turned quickly, throwing his companion onto the side of the bed and quickly covering her with his own strong naked body. “You wouldn’t lie to me now would you?” He asked, looking in her eyes.

 

“I have no reason to lie.” She said, perfectly comfortable with their change in position. “I’m sure you would take any advice so that you can be with the Lady of Winterfell. She is known for her beauty and her strong will..”

 

Sandor cut her off, “And what if I don’t want her, but something a little closer to home?” 

 

“Mmmmmm.” She moaned softly in his ear, “You certainly are big all over.” There was no hiding the huge erection which pushed now into her cloth covered heat — threatening to tear her small clothes and seek its own entry without her leave. That was certainly what she was referring to as she squirmed wantonly underneath him. She would not have stopped him had he pressed forward -- Sandor could feel it in the heat rolling of her body and the wetness that had greeted his cock.

 

He was nipping at her jaw line, teasing her in the way she had been doing him for the better part of the early evening. He could sense the thrill it gave her, could feel her pulse quicken under his lips as he seduced her. A pretty girl like this came along once in a life time and Sandor would spend all night tangled with her if he had to.

 

“It’s best you save your strength this night Clegane and make your judgements about her Ladyship when you meet her tomorrow morning.”

 

At this Sandor lifted his head from her neck and looked at her again. Clearly confused by her words, the young lady continued. “She comes to greet all the fighters in the last round of the tournament. Wish them well and such. You should at least know what you are giving up for me, before you do it. I’m not sure she would take kindly to sharing.”

 

Pushing up on his hands Sandro looked down at the little bird, who was playing a very well orchestrated game of seduction with him. He could not even dream of a woman more perfect in looks and personality than her.  

 

_ ‘The Lady of Winterfell is surly powerful and influential, but I don’t care.’ _ Sandor did care actually, he wanted his title and his lands back -- the Lady of Winterfell would clearly be the easy route to that. And if what was between his legs made the matter come to a beneficial conclusion faster, he was all for it. Yet, if he had to choose between them Sandor couldn’t be so sure he wouldn’t just take her Ladyship’s money, maid and then run.

 

She raised her hand briefly to his face affectionately, then rose from the bed and put her dress back on. Making her way to the door, the handmaid turned back to him.

 

“The future of the North is tied with your victory here tomorrow. There’s not a man out there on the field that could best Glover, if not for you.” She seemed sad now, yet hopeful. It was an emotion Sandor could not place — a small sign of weakness in a normally bold and self assured woman.

 

“What’s your name?” He finally asked, curious as to what her answer would be.

 

Blushing slightly she smiled, “My name is of no consequence.”

 

“It is to me.” He replied, now sitting up on his bed.

 

Inclining her head slightly she spoke, “Then perhaps we should leave something to keep your interest for another day.”

 

With that she exited the room closing the door swiftly behind her. Flopping back on the bed in a frustrated manner Sandor put his hands behind his head and replayed their encounter in his head. There was something more to this woman that met the eye, but he couldn’t quite place what it was. Was she sent here by her mistress? Did she come there of her own free will? Many questions swirled around in Sandor’s head as he readied himself for dinner. He found the only other tunic he owned and put it on, the other one would have to wait until after the tournament to be mended.

  
  



	4. An Uneasy Alliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor realizes just who he is dealing with when he meets the Lady of Winterfell. An uneasy alliance is struck between the two, one that would bond them forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sooooo happy to get this chapter out. Always when there is a bunch of dialogue it takes me longer. I'm really enjoying this chapter and it basically sets up the rest of the short stories I will write in this "realm". Enjoy!

#  Chapter 4:  An Uneasy Alliance

 

Sandor grumbled under his breath as the stable boy fumbled about with his armor. In a way he deserved this kind of treatment, he was one of the few entries into the tournament without a squire. That meant he generally had to strap the armor on himself and for the melee that wasn’t the best idea. Sandor needed certain parts tight to his body and other parts loose, but to get the right parts at the right tension it was always better with some help. Not that this stable boy knew what the fuck he was doing, or that Sandor’s guidance was particularly patient or kind. But they would make it in the end, as long as that little bastard didn’t pinch him anymore.

 

“Watch it!” Sandor barked as his shoulder was again pinched in-between the two sides of his breastplate.

 

It didn’t help that the boy was trembling with fear, but Sandor wasn’t in the mood the play nice. He had a tournament to win, and more importantly, he needed to be in his bloody armor before the Lady of the castle came to greet him. It would do no good to be half dressed if he was going to ask her for his lands back, he needed to make the best impression possible.

 

He could hear the door to his room creak and saw a flash of red in his peripheral vision. As he wasn’t exactly facing the entry of the room, it was hard to see who had come in, but on this occasion he didn’t have to look too hard. The mane of red hair that had entered his room could only belong to one person.

 

Smirking to himself, Sandor spoke. “So you reconsidered our little discussion, did you?” He chuckled, thinking of how fitting it would be to bend her over the dresser and fuck her senseless in his armor before fighting in the melee. She was certainly worth breaking one of his most sacred tournament rules. “The boy hasn’t put my cod piece on yet so I guess I could be persuaded to do some  _ warm-up _ before the …”

 

Something wasn’t quite right and though Sandor couldn’t see what was going on behind him he could feel that things were not as they should be. For one the boy had stopped pulling awkwardly at his armor, and for another the room was completely silent, save for the sound of a sword moving from its sheath.

 

Turning abruptly for a better view, Sandor couldn’t quite interpret what he saw unfolding before him. His redheaded minx was there alright, her auburn locks literally shining over a beautiful silken green dress as deep as the forests of the north. The direwolf of House Stark pinned a light cloak over her shoulders. She had her arms crossed over her chest, her hip cocked to one side and a very amused smirk -- almost a laugh -- on her lips. 

 

Sandor’s heart dropped through the floor.

 

Ser Glover was next to her as well, the mark of a Sworn Sword pinned to his armor, his war implement almost fully drawn. 

 

“How dare you speak to my Lady as if she were some kind of common tavern whore!” The comely man screached, his stance ready for a fight.

 

The boy that had helped Sandor with his armor was so shocked, he’d literally frozen in place not knowing whether to bow to the Queen of the North, hide or run. And to be honest, Sandor found himself in a very similar dilemma.

 

Booming with authority the Lady of Winterfell’s voice turned all eyes to her, calming the chaos. “Now now Jonas, there shall be no blood spilt in my presence before the melee begins.” She said to the knight behind her.

 

Her sparkling blue eyes were all for Sandor though, not paying any heed to her flustered sworn protector. Sandor could see both of their faces from his place in the room, hers full of curiosity and desire, Glover’s filled with shock and jealousy. Her sworn sword looked ready to cut him down unarmed if she would let him, though as Ser Glover made to contradict her, her Ladyship spoke before he could utter the words -- as if she had anticipated his response. 

 

“It seems Clegane has mistaken me for that red headed whore down at the city gates. Ros I believe her name is. He wouldn’t be the  _ first _ to call her by my name.” The inflection in her voice and the redness of Glover’s face, indicated that she knew something he didn’t want her to know -- and she was dangling it in front of him.

 

_ ‘Castrated and a cunt, doesn’t get much better than that.’ _ Sandor mused as his feelings began to settle - a smirk crossing his face so that Glover could see what he was thinking.  _ ‘No wonder that little son of a bitch wants to get even.’ _

 

The wicked smirk on Sandor’s face did not underlie the fact that her was angry, there was no other word for how he felt about her deception. Yet, he couldn’t quite be sure where this was going, and in situations like this Sandor always felt it better to stay calm and test the waters. It had kept him alive all this time after all. Aside from that, the put-off pout on the face of the younger knight was rather satisfying.

 

The Lady of Winterfell came closer to him, close enough that he could smell her heather perfume. “I’ve come to wish you all the best in the tournament today and…” She paused only briefly for effect, “...to fulfill one modest wish if it is within my power to do so. So if you would like a certain wine, food...or something else..” Her mouth twitched knowingly as she spoke, “...then tell me now.”

 

She was talking to him with her eyes, there was a fire in them that signaled she wanted to be alone with him. Though he would have wished it anyway, for neither the boy nor the cunt should hear his request. There was no doubt in Sandor’s mind that it would only add to his further embarrassment for them to hear her completely deny him what he wanted. Other than that she had some explaining to do, and he would get his answers one way or another. So it didn’t take Sandor too long to respond to her.

 

“A moment alone with your Ladyship.” He kind of grumbled it out, just loud enough for them to hear but perhaps not understand.

 

Glover answered first, “If you think a brute like yourself can even breath the same air as the Lady of…”

 

“That’s  _ enough _ Jonas.” She threw him a sideways look clearly exasperated that she had to correct him yet again.

 

“He’s a mercenary my Lady, who knows what he is capable of or what he’s done on campaign.” Glover was utterly shocked that she would even entertain such a request, he was no doubt jealous of his request and the attention she was giving Sandor.

 

_ ‘A cunt, a whiner and a cheater...this really does get better and better.’  _ Sandor thought to himself as she turned to the knight, to address him properly. Her hands on her hips.

 

“What’s the worst that could happen Jonas? That he would fuck me bloody and throw my body in the middle of a lake?” She turned then to eye Sandor a moment. “I think you’re overreacting.”

 

Sandor exhaled sharply recognizing his own words from the lake where they had met days before. She was a feisty one, that had to be said. A kind of indiscriminate feisty that ignites passion and anger all at once. Sandor swallowed uneasily at this thought, he didn’t like being played with, not one bit.

 

Seeing as Jonas had nothing for a rebuttal, she continued. “Leave us.” She looked at her young, knightly companion. “Stay outside the door. If you hear me screaming -- and it’s not in pleasure -- only then may you enter.”

 

Ser Glover had no other means of arguing it with her so with a huff, and an evil eye shot in Sandor’s direction he made his way outside of the small room. Never in a million years would Sandor have thought a man of Glover’s standing and looks could have been jealous of him -- he wouldn’t have given a shit either. But it was still satisfying. Knights had no basis in reality, and neither did highborn Ladies. But this Lady was different, very very different from anything Sandor could have anticipated. Standing nearly alone with her in the room his pulse beat with anger, his body tingled with anticipation as to what would come next.

 

Looking over at the stable boy in a stern yet playful manner she said, “You too.” The boy merely nodded, grabbed his things and scuttled past her skirts and out the door, closing it with a loud thud. They were alone now, though this was different from the night before in almost every way.

 

A tense moment passed between them. The air was thick with the unspoken moments of their last two encounters. Sandor knew better than to speak in anger — knew his mouth said stupid things when he did so. Hence he waited, hoping she would break the silence.

 

“You’re cross with me aren’t you?” She said finally, already knowing the answer. Her eyes were observing him as if there was nothing else in the world that mattered, and in this moment that could have very well been the case. It was unusual to be the center of such a woman’s attentions, especially for Sandor.

 

‘She’s sizing me up, like a fighter before a melee.’ It was a strange feeling, yet somehow comforting as he was used to that kind of thing. But unlike most of his opponents, she showed no fear -- as small and feminine as she was.

 

Not letting that idea phase him Sandor stood proudly in his armor, though it was still not fully tied to his body, showing no signs of caving into her. “Well that’s a fucking understatement.” He answered, his baritone voice reverberating in his armor so he could feel it throughout his body. 

 

“This doesn’t mean we still can’t play handmaid and mercenary whenever we like.” She had a sinful little grin on her lips which made her all the more beautiful to Sandor, and all the more reason for him to look away. If there was one thing Sandor was not, it was a fool -- especially one that could be played by a pretty highborn lady. He was angry and made no effort to hide it.

 

An eyebrow lifted in amusement she went to the corner of the room and poured herself a glass of wine, doing her best to pretend she did not see the resentfulness etched into this features. 

 

“What would you have had me do?” She asked rhetorically. “If I had I told you I was the Lady of Winterfell when we first met, you would have laughed me right out of that lake. Or perhaps even held me for ransom.”

 

At this Sandor snorted loudly, showing his disapproval of her assumptions. True, he would not have believed her words had she told him who she was, but he would have never held her against her will — he wasn’t that kind of man, even if his mercenary counterparts were. But it did show her to be worldly and this was a good thing.

 

“And last night?” He asked, the irritation in his voice coming out gruffly. “Seems you would rather take me for a fool.” 

 

There was a bitterness to his words, one that made her wrinkle his nose at his words. Taking a sip of wine she took a moment to look him over. 

 

“No, not for a fool.” She said very seriously, as if his words had hurt her personally and she was doing her best to refute them. 

 

“The last thing I take you for is a fool.” She put the glass of wine down and narrowed the gap between them. “It’s not easy being a woman in my position. I can’t simply tell my handmaidens that I’ll be spending my evening in the presence of an unknown man. Alone. Unarmed.”

 

Sandor’s breathing increased at her words, she was good at seduction. He fingered the hilt of his sword out of nervousness.

 

“I had to sneak past two guards, a handmaid and a stable boy to make my way to you. So you must forgive me for misleading you -- but I couldn’t very well have had the whole castle talking about our rendezvous.” 

 

Their eyes were locked together in a long stare. He needed to know if she was telling the truth, she needed to know if he believed her. Something would have to give soon.

 

“Besides,” She continued, seeing they were deadlocked. “I had to know for myself.”

 

“And what would that be?” He asked her, still a sour note in his voice.

 

Her smile softened a bit as she approached him now so close there was almost no space between their bodies. “I had to know if you wanted me for me, and not for...this.” She looked around her signaling to her power and influence. “There are a lot of Glover’s out there, and I wouldn’t want to repeat the mistakes of my father.”

 

At this admission the air in the room lightened a bit, but Sandor still couldn’t help but take a jab at her — as she had him. He was a fighter after all, and wasn’t one let himself be pushed around. “From what I hear it seems like you have a way of getting rid of men one way or another.”

 

She laughed outright at this. It was more a jovial laugh as if they were old friends given to taking the piss. A smile on her face, the Lady of Winterfell came behind him and picked up with his armor where the boy had left off. Her fingers were sure, her touch gentle — even where her words were not. “Spoken like a man who is given to tavern gossip.” 

 

Tightening his armor with a bit more gusto, as if he were being cinched into a bodice moving him a little from his proud stance, she continued. “I have been married twice Clegane, in case that was also something you were curious about. It seems your sources were not worth their coppers.”

 

Rolling his eyes at her words, though she couldn’t see, Sandor remained still while she reworked some of the knots the boy had clearly done incorrectly. She knew her way around armor, of that there was no doubt. Needing the help and not having the time to be picky Sandor stood there in silence, waiting for the right moment to ask her about his lands.

 

“My first husband, Lord Dasherey, was taken by fever only some months after we wed. I was but a child then, able to learn some things from him about how to run a castle and how to do it efficiently. Then there was my second husband, Lord Baelish. He taught me about politics of course, but even more so about how to please a man and get pleasure in return.” 

 

She was tightening his codpiece as if to prove a point, and all the better -- if he were to get an unbid erection at this point it would only serve to complicate things between them further.

 

“Sadly, he committed treason against the crown. An offense punishable by death. I had little choice in the matter. The law is the law after all.” Finishing up the last bit of his armor she came back around the front to admire her handiwork. “Though I can’t say I’m sad that he’s no longer with us. He wasn’t really my type.”

 

That sexy little grin she often wore flashed across her face again, telling Sandor he definitely was her type. He could feel his resolve to fight her failing. ‘ _ Bugger the Seven!’ _ He exclaimed to himself as he flexed his arms and fingers, making sure all his armor plating was positioned properly.

 

Crossing her arms in front of her body she continued, “I suppose that you didn’t ask me for a moment alone just to talk about my love life.”

 

It was the way she trailed off that made Sandor wonder if she had anticipated this discussion as well. She was extremely adept given her age, and it made Sandor wonder what other things she had going on at the same time. Having pondered this point a bit too long, she turned to leave the room.

 

“Wait.” He said, watching her stop in her tracks, her back still to him. “I don’t want the purse if I win this tournament.”

 

Turning back to look at him her face was full of curiosity and excitement, a glint in her ice blue eyes.

 

“I want to get my lands back and I would need your help to do it.” Sandor was never good at articulating what he wanted, mainly because he obtained his desires through intimidation and violence. There was no need to make the words sound pretty when you were as ugly, big and menacing as he was. But he didn’t need to make his words pretty for her, she seemed to know what he was thinking even before he could say anything.

 

There was a knowing look on her face, combined with a smile he could not quite place. Her head cocked to the side she spoke. “Do you know why I like you Clegane?”

 

Though he was not in the mood to play her little games, Sandor couldn’t help but glance down between his legs with a sheepish smirk on his face, just to see her reaction.

 

Smiling broadly she said, “I meant  _ apart _ from the obvious.”

 

When no further answer came, she moved closer to him and continued, “You’re a second son.”

 

The confused look that crossed his face was all she needed to continue, “Second sons know they have to go out and make something of themselves, they expect to be handed nothing. Yet they also pass up nothing. They have grit, a hunger for power that men like Glover think they have, but fail to truly understand.” She had her hand on his breastplate, staring into his hard grey eyes. “But I understand Clegane -- our situations are not so different.”

 

She had hit the nail right on the head and Sandor was hard pressed to argue with her. While he had never wished himself a castle on a hill or a knighthood by a large house, he had always sought to prove himself. His mercenary work in Essos, the fat purse he had built up over the years -- all to show that he had deserved his family’s lands more than his brother ever had. He wanted them back, and knew she would be his ally. Though Sandor had no illusions about the nature of their relationship, it would be an uneasy alliance between them.

 

Shifting away from him she paced around the room as if she were thinking, trying to play out scenarios in her head. “What you ask of me is no small feat Clegane. The time for you to voice your claim has long since passed and the Lannisters have already stuck the grubby fingers in the pie so to speak.” She turned her head to him to make sure he was still listening, he was. 

 

“But I am a supporter of inheritance, no matter what the claim. Aside from that they move to take too much land and Lord Tywin is openly threatening the balance of power. I cannot in good conscious allow it to continue.” She was very serious now, no games and no nonsense.

 

“So what would I owe you in return?” Sandor asked, curious as to her response and weary as well. She was not a ruler because she gave away things for free, he knew there would be a price. It was just a matter of how high that price would be.

 

Smoothing the edges of her skirt she blushed slightly, as if she were a maid but looked him dead in the eye. It was unsettling for a man used to being in control, as it drained him of any perceived notion of it. “I’m a woman of simple desires, truth be told. In return for my support, an army at your disposal and political will to return your lands to you -- I would ask you this.”

 

The storm was approaching, Sandor could feel a chill run down his back at her words. He was making a deal with the devil, the stakes would be high.

 

“Swear your sword to me. Promise to protect my interests, my body, and in return I shall make you the lord and commander of my private quarters. I cannot promise you love Clegane, but everything else is yours.” It was a bold statement, particularly one coming from a Lady of her standing. Any warm blooded man, who enjoyed the company of women, would have been stupid to pass up an offer like that. She was not an easy woman, that was obvious. Yet she had a spark to her, a fire that burned so deep it drew you to it. Drawing on his very early experiences with fire Sandor only feared that their interactions would leave yet another indelible mark on him  in a painfully permanent way.

 

The flicker of fire in her eyes told Sandor she wasn’t yet finished. “In addition, I would request that you take control of my armies, oversee their training and their preparedness.”

 

This time it was Sandor who raised an eyebrow, “There are plenty of Northern Lords who would rather see me hung than let me lead their men to battle.”

 

Her mood was changing, gone was the playful nymph he had met at the lake and in her place a shrewd negotiator and, if he dare say, a shrewd leader. She was a hard woman, this Lady of Winterfell. It took a lot of backbone to play this game of thrones the nobility so often played — even more if you were a woman. Sandor had never really cared who he had worked for, leadership was a characteristic that transcended the sex of a person, just like idiocy. The gods knew he’d worked for incompetent men than her over his lifetime. Men with fragile egos and small cocks who had something to prove. The redheaded beauty of Winterfell had something to prove too, but she was calm, confident and unmoving. Had she been a man, there was no doubt in Sandor’s mind she would be running half of Westeros -- but in this world as a woman things took time. Swearing his sword to her was not something to be taken lightly either. It would be to ally their houses, seal their fates to her decisions and his prowess on the battlefield. There was no semblance of security in this alliance, no fat feasts and patting each other on the backs — if he agreed to this it was to lash himself to a woman of which he knew almost nothing about. It was to agree to a bond more lasting than marriage.

 

She approached him slowly, “The Northern Lords have not fought a war in over sixty years Clegane, but you — you are different.” She placed a hand on his breastplate again, “I have aspirations and these aspirations require a strong and experienced man by my side. One who isn’t afraid of war, but thrives on it.”

 

Feeling the pull in his loines even more strongly due to his armor, Sandor pulled her hips closer to his — not that it achieved much other than to bring her even that much nearer to him.

 

“I knew it would be you the moment I laid eyes on you in that lake.” She smiled and moved her face as if to kiss him. Sandor stopped her by lacing his fingers in her hair.

 

“And if I lose today?” Sandor whispered, their faces very close now. So close he could feel her breath on the bit of exposed neck through his armor.

 

“You’ll most surely be dead. If you think Glover will let you survive this tournament if he makes it to single combat with you, then you are naive. And my plans will have to be achieved in a different manner.” There was an uneasy edge to her voice, as if she knew a dark side of the man that others did not.

 

“And if I’m not happy with the private arrangement?” There was almost no chance of that happening. Even if she were a starfish, as his mercenary brothers called it, he’d find satisfaction deep inside her anyway. Sandor began to play in his head what the chances were that she was all talk and no action, smirking while he did so.

 

At this she grinned, that devil’s kind of grin that made the fire of the seven hells burn hot inside Sandor’s armor. “If you think for one second that we are equals in this game Clegane, then you are in over your head already. If you agree, you agree to all of it. I have no qualms about having a man against his will.” Her eyes dared him to do something, and he smirked wondering just how she intended to have him against his will. The prospect was enticing if he dared admit to it.

 

_ ‘You can’t rape the willing.’ _ He mused as her eyes blazed their deep beautiful blue before him. He made to kiss her but she gently pulled her head away -- teasing him.

 

“You will have an opinion in this arrangement once you have  _ earned _ it.” She whispered into his neck, her warm breath filling the space between his collarbone and his armor.

 

Whipping her around to the wall and pushing her back flat against it Sandor kissed her for real this time, and she did not resist. He couldn’t feel her body through his armor, but he could feel the pull of his breast plate as she gripped it to her, he could feel her tongue darting through his mouth testing its agility. A melee of a different kind, one he would look forward to after winning this bloody tournament. 

 

When he finally let her go and their lips separated he could see she was satisfied. In the end Sandor Clegane saw her for who she was -- a woman plain and simple. Her desires in life were not much different from his own, even if her station was. She wanted to be loved like the young beautiful woman she was, respected as a leader, and feared by her opponents. She had been right to tell him she was not an easy woman, particularly for a man with a fragile ego. But he didn’t fall into that category, he never had. Sandor had always been his own man and that was exactly the kind of person she needed by her side, somebody who stood their ground, gave good counsel and could release her from the stress of her duties. He grinned a the thought of what that stress relief entailed.

 

“I’ll have to think about it.” He answered, his forehead still touching hers. There was no reason to commit now, he had to win first and there were nine other fighters to contend with.

 

“Well don’t doddle on it too long, the fights start in an hour’s time.” She handed him something from around her neck that had been tucked into her bodice. “My favor.” She said simply.

 

It was a mirror, oval shaped on a chain. He remembered what she had told him yesterday and wondered if it were indeed true It seemed silly that something as stupid as vanity would be the downfall of a good fighter -- but Sandor had seen men fall for less. Either way he could not refuse her gift now though it was large and bothersome, not if it was her sign of favor. Dutifully he put the mirror around his neck and slipped it under his breastplate. 

 

Pushing past him gently, she made her way to the door. “My name is Sansa, by the way.” She looked back at him, a young woman’s smile returning to her maiden looking face.

 

“Knew that already.” He said to her, a smirk on his lips. “Glover talks about you a lot -- likes to run his cunt mouth off.”

 

“Protecting my honor already are we?” She teased, “I’d say that’s a good start.”  

 

With that she opened the door and left the room, leaving Sandor to ponder his next move and even more importantly his future in the short time before the tournament.


	5. The Heat of the Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a hot final day of the tournament, and Glover turns up that heat on Sandor in the final round of the melee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fretted over the dialogue a bit. I hope you like it.
> 
> I have to give a big shout out to AdultOrphan on this one -- their inventive brain came up with certain parts of this fight scene that I was sooooo stupid to not have considered. THANKS!

#  Chapter 5: The Heat of the Moment

It wasn’t supposed to be as hot as fucking Sunspear this far north, but as it was Sandor found some confidence in the fact that he had fought successfully under such conditions in the past. That couldn’t be said for the hedge knight he was currently locked in a melee with. The sorry bugger was cooking in his armor, the sun beating down on him with a force akin to Sandor’s own strength as he pelted the overheated man with blows. The knight took a swipe at Sandor with his fist, connecting flaccidly with Sandor’s breastplate -- it felt more like the gentle caress of a woman in the throws of passion, than a punch of a warrior. 

 

Annoyed by this point, and not wishing to further blunt his sword on the tosser in front of him, Sandor launched himself forward tackling the knight to the dirt. Wholly unprepared for such an attack the man flailed around, unable to act or think fast enough before Sandor had relieved him of his helmet and begun to squeeze his little neck. 

 

_ ‘I don’t judge the poor bugger for pissing himself, I’m an ugly son of a bitch to have on top of you.’ _ He thought as the smell of urine whafted his way.

 

Of course for Sansa that statement didn’t apply. He could see the Lady of Winterfell in his peripheral vision sitting on her modest throne, her court chattering around her. She had been doing her best to keep her face schooled during this final day of the tournament, trying not to show one participant favor over the other -- but that mask had slowly worn away as the day had gone on. The hedge knight eventually yielded and as he did so she clapped wildly, a satisfied grin on her less than angel’s face.

 

Inclining his head in her direction he walked out of the ring as quickly as he could, removed his helmet and sat under a shade tree.  _ ‘Bugger this heat!’  _

 

Removing his gauntlets and the leather gloves under them Sandor put these parts of his armor, with his helmet, under the tree and made for the river. After the words he and Glover had exchanged yesterday and certainly after this morning, Sandor had been even more cautious about what he ate and drank -- leaving his wineskin empty so as not to make it easy for the jealous knight to poison him. After what he had heard it wouldn’t surprise him if the younger knight would try to use such means to get rid of him -- Sandor had made it to the last round now and soon it would just be the two of them. 

 

Sandor’s mind went back to his conversations with the Lady of the castle and he wondered how much weight to give them. She’d said if he lost, Glover would not let him live -- it was a strange statement if he could say so. Tournaments were all about making your opponent yield, killing typically happened by accident or supposed accident. If Glover would attempt the latter today, he would have to be careful, more on his guard as normal particularly when the prize was so high.

 

Sandor knelt by the river and put this wineskin in the cool water. Splashing his face and taking a drink he could immediately feel the relief the cold water brought his battle worn body. He might have been used to the heat, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t soaking in his own sweat. More like boiling in it actually. The sound of footsteps approaching perked Sandor’s ears up, though he waited to turn around -- no sense in appearing nervous or jumpy. The footsteps, of which there were several, stopped rather close to his crouched person at the edge of the river -- threateningly close.

 

Snorting, Sandor took an uncomfortably long swig from his wineskin, emptying the entire thing in one, extended, exaggerated gulp. A satisfied and refreshed, “Ahhh.” Passed his lips as he stood up and turned to the three men who had crowded so close behind him. 

 

They were big brutish types, not in armor, more thugs. None of them were quite the size of Sandor, all of them held the same cuntish smile on their faces as if they had some sort of security in numbers against him. A knowing smirk appeared on Sandor’s lips, “Can I help you motley lot of tossers, or just come to take a look at the freak show?”

 

There was a pregnant silence, while Sandor stared them down, waiting for an answer. Finally the one in the middle spoke. “We don’t like your kind around here.” He said, his arms crossed with some tattoos on them. 

 

Sandor knew these, they were the signs of Northern nationalism -- they hated all foreigners and probably didn’t take kindly to Sandor’s performance in the tournament. He was a Westerman and he was whipping the ass of just about any Northman who would face him, so sure they didn’t like it. And Sandor couldn’t give two shits less.

 

Though Sandor couldn’t shake the suspicion that they were hired. He knew a man who fought for money when he looked them in the eye -- and there was highborn money written all over this. As if these three peasants could intimated him, it was almost comical in a way. Like whoever had hired them had no idea of how the real world worked, and how underwhelming this lot were to a real fighter.

 

“I’m going to give you boys until the count of three to change your minds, then I’m gonna fuck you in that tight little cunt you call your arse.” Sandor looked directly at the leader of this pack of rats, just so there was no confusion as to who was going to bare the brunt of his anger.

 

There was no need to count to three, one of the men swung wide and Sandor caught his fist with his left hand-- stopping its momentum completely-- and decked him with his right hand. Kicking the next man that came at him, Sandor then focused on the leader, blocking two misplaced blows, but getting hit in the gut by the third. Sandor knew what set him apart from these men was the fact that he was a seasoned and trained fighter -- his body could have been made out of steel it was so hard and used to taking abuse. Not soft and squishy like some big farm boys who occasionally get in a bar room brawl or fuck a goat. 

 

The leader, surprised by the fact it had no impact on Sandor whatsoever, was even more surprised when Sandor grabbed  him by the throat and launched him into the river -- several feet away. Whipping back around to the other two men Sandor squared off with them, daring one of them to step up.

 

“Come on ya northern girls, too shy to dance with me?” They were scared of him but were going to try anyway -- probably they had been paid well enough to lose a tooth or two. 

 

The rat on the left moved in, jabbing Sandor in the face but seriously underestimating his strength and Sandor’s own speed. With the next jab Sandor grabbed his arm, pulled him to the ground and pounded him in the face -- knocking out several teeth. The rat on the right did his best to defend his friend, kicking Sandor in the gut to a bit more effect. It knocked the wind out of him, which was better than the others had done up to this point. Smiling and then launching himself at the man Sandor tackled him to the floor and beat him into a pulp. 

 

Standing up to asses the mayhem, and the small group that had gathered at the river bank to watch their fight, Sandor declared himself the winner. Making his way back to the river he filled his wineskin up while the leader of the pack slowly pulled himself on the bank. He was in no mood to fight, most peasants couldn’t swim so it was a surprise that this man had brought himself back to the shore given the current. Spitting a bit of blood he had in his mouth on the man, Sandor then took a long drink from his wineskin.

 

“Get the fuck out of my sight.” The men ran off, not interested in challenging the big Westerman.

 

_ ‘Fucking Glover.’ _ He thought,  _ ‘Trying to soften me up before the match.’ _

 

Sandor walked back to the tree under which he had left his armor, to find his greaves there but his helmet was missing. _ ‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’ _ He cringed at the idea that Glover was playing a mental game with him. It wasn’t half bad he had to admit, a way to throw him off right before the final match. 

 

_ ‘That little cunt is gonna get it.’ _ Sandor thought in anger as he put his soaked leather gloves and his greaves back on.  _ ‘What a fucking day.’ _

 

Of course these things were just petty, the sign of a man who felt he would lose. Of course, in that moment, the trumpets sounded calling the wandering spectators back to the makeshift arena in the center of the castle. 

 

_ ‘FUUUUUCK!’  _ He was late and could also get disqualified if he showed up too late after the call.

 

If Glover had wanted to piss him off and try to hold him from turning up for the last match, he had nearly achieved his goals. A bit out of breath, Sandor approached the ring, the couple of beads of sweat running down his face. Sansa eyed him a moment, silently asking him where his helmet was. It was too damn hot anyway, better he didn’t have it. His eyes caught hers and he merely nodded his head for her to continue. For a split second Sandor could sense a bit of uneasiness in her, but she quickly moved things along - not wanting to show any weakness.

 

“I would like to congratulate our last two fighters. There was a huge tournament entry, and the two of you have earned your place here.” She looked at both the men from her elevated platform above the ring. “The rules to the melee are simple, there are almost none. You can use anything at your disposal, except for another person, and elict substances. Are we clear?”

 

Both men nodded solemnly, though Sandor’s mind was raging, trying not to give in to what would have been so easy -- his anger. That smug look on Glover’s face before he put down the visor of his helmet just served to piss Sandor of further as he drew his sword and began to circle the man.

 

_ ‘Come on take a swing at me ya cunt.’ _ Sandor was hoping for, no praying for, the man across from him to make one wrong step.

 

When the young man did, it was lackluster at best. Sandor blocked his swings easily bringing a few of his own into play. They were testing eachother, probing for weaknesses. It was not to be discounted that his opponent was a good fighter. He wouldn’t last one day as a mercenary, but he could win these pretty boy fights. That was probably the only thing that put Sandor on edge, these melee events were often more about getting your opponent to yield, not killing them -- two completely different mindsets. Losing on a technicality was bullshit, and Sandor would have none of it.

 

As Glover switched grips Sandor rushed in, hitting his sword with three blows then taking his helmet off with an uppercut to the jaw. The fucking thing flew into the sky, landing back into the crowd. “That was for stealing my helmet you tosser.”

 

The blonde man wiped his bloody lip and laughed as he gripped his sword and waited for Sandor to come to him.

 

Their swords met again and Sandor pressed his strength advantage. Sure it was exhausting for him, but it was putting the boy on the back foot. Glover backed up toward the edge of the ring. Their swords crossed and Sandor leaned in good and close.

 

“You’ve gotta do better than that you blonde boy whore.” Sandor hissed in Glover’s ear so he could hear it.

 

“Oh you’re a big scary man Clegane.” The younger knight fired back, taunting him further.

 

Stepping away a pace so the knight could come back to the center of the ring Sandor mocked him further, “Funny, that’s what your mother told me last night.”

 

Suddenly, totally abhorred by his words, the blonde man screeched, “My mother’s dead you prick.”

 

A wide grin covered Sandor’s face as he gripped his sword with both hands, getting back into his defensive stance, “Mmmm….I thought she wasn’t movin’ much.”

 

That seemed to do the trick, but not quite the way Sandor had anticipated. An enraged look on the knight’s face he reached his sword back into a nearby brazier. It was suddenly engulfed by flames. The crowd jumped and collectively gasped, Sandor instinctively took a step back. His eyes wide.  _ ‘Bloody hell. This just keeps getting better and better.’’ _

 

To say Sandor was afraid of fire might have been a bit of an overstatement, he could light one in a camp and hold a torch -- admittedly at a considerable distance from his face -- but a flaming sword was not something he had prepared for. Nor was it something he ever wanted to encounter again. Every time he blocked the knight’s advances, the fucking wildfire would knock off of it, dropping burning glowing green bits of it on the ground near Sandor’s boots. It made the hairs on Sandor’s neck stand on end, making a fear rise in his belly that he had not felt in a very long time. Aside from that he was starting to feel strange -- as if he were drunk or unbalanced. Sandor was suddenly sweating way more than he would have, a tingling sensation growing in his hands.

 

_ ‘It must be the heat.’ _ Sandor told himself as he retreated from the advancing fire, his steps becoming more and more unsteady.

 

Glover delivered a blow so hard, that Sandor’s hand waivered a bit when he blocked it, bringing the flaming blade close to his face. Jerking his face away had the unintended side effect of pulling him off balance, suddenly falling to one knee.  _ ‘Fuck, something’s wrong.’ _

 

A fight was never a good time to have something go wrong, but this was certainly not a good time.  _ ‘With a fucking flaming sword and a cheating cunt wielding it.’  _

 

Sandor couldn’t say what it was, but his heart rate had increased, his strength was leaving him and his vision was narrowing. This needed to end quickly or the bastard was going to take an arm off, or worse. 

 

_ ‘Damn this bloody flaming sword.’  _ Getting up with a surge of reserve strength, he met Glover blow for blow, their swords clinking off of one another loudly in the yard. He didn’t have to look over at Sansa to know she was on the edge of her seat, her knuckles white with anticipation and fear.

 

Releasing a feral growl, Sandor advanced on the other man, only to be tripped. His strength was failing, but his wits were not. At the very least he had the presence of mind to turn so as to fall on his back, his sword up so as to parry any oncomeing blow. He was surly glad he had done that for the flaming sword came crashing down on him with a loud pang. Some of that god forsaken green shit landed mere centimeters from his face. The fall had also sent Sansa’s mirror sailing across the dirt of the fighting ring, detaching from his neck and landing somewhere behind him. Glover was pressing his advantage, leaning over Sandor trying to bring as much weight as he could down on the sword and Sandor’s weakening arms. 

 

“Fuck you!” Sandor said as brought a leg up and kicked the knight off of him.

 

Knowing he didn’t have much time, but not able to shake the impending feeling of darkness overtaking him, Sandor turned on his stomach and began to crawl. Failing to get up several times he found himself stumbling about the fighting ring. He couldn’t see much, his vision impairment was only getting worse. All that he knew for certain was that he had his sword in one hand, and that he was headed in the opposite direction of his opponent. He wasn’t one to thank the gods, but if he made it out of this one he promised he would. A glint of sun hit the mirror, drawing Sandor’s eye to it like a beacon -- keeping him on the right path. Stumbling one last time, Sandor fell to his hands and knees in the dirt, mere centimeters from the mirror -- he was foaming at the mouth.

 

_ ‘Fuck she was right.’  _ Sandor could see the blurry outline of the blonde, comely knight, in the mirror behind him, fire sword raised -- ready for the kill shot -- yet admiring himself in the bloody thing. Without thinking, and really out of options, Sandor gripped his sword as tightly as his failing strength would let him and turned his body, swiping the sword blindly in the knight’s direction. 

 

He had certainly overexerted himself, because then everything went black.

  
  



	6. A Sword Sworn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor wakes up to find out what happened during his blackout. An alliance is formed, and a sword is rather willingly sworn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank everybody who read this fic and hope you really enjoyed it. I have two more ideas to make this a three part series. A Tale of a Northern Queen and....the other name I haven't decided on. But ok let's start with that ;-)
> 
> It's been a blast. Hugs and kisses!

#  Chapter 6: A Sword Sworn

 

Sandor’s eyes began to slowly open, but they were far from the first of his senses to awaken.

 

_ ‘Heather, camomile and some ink perhaps?’ _ He wasn’t sure where he was, just that it wasn’t the usual smell of hay, muck and horse piss he usually woke up to on the road.  _ ‘But if I’m not on the road then...the tournament. Fuck me!’  _

 

At this realization his eyes opened at once, an ample set of breasts were the first things he drank in with them. He was looking at them from the bottom, able to admire their roundness even though a thin layer of silk kept their most juicy parts hidden. His eyes glanced around the room a bit, taking it in and testing their focus. There was a small fire in the fireplace, some candles were lit, it must have been night as there was no light coming through the shudders. Shifting slightly Sandor realized he was on a feather bed, soft, warm and comfortable. A finger was lightly stroking his burnt cheek, coaxing him awake. It was only then that his eyes ventured further than the set of tits above him to the cascade of red hair and the friendly smile beyond them.

 

“Welcome back.” Sansa said to him softly, cradling his head in her lap. She was soft, warm and she smelled like heaven.

 

It took a moment before his thoughts actually made it to his mouth but when it did, his voice was scratchy and not completely recognizable. “Did I win?”

 

She chuckled and moved a bit of his hair out of his face, “In a manner of speaking.”

 

“Am I dead?” Sandor asked, as that could only be the reason for such an answer and for him to be in such a place. 

 

At this she laughed outright, her gorgeous mounds heaving gently with her chest, “Not this time Clegane.” She said amused, “But you were close.”

 

He lay there a moment, content just to be alive with her and breathe some fresh air. Her Tully blue eyes glistened in the candlelight as her hand casually moved to his chest, stroking the dark, thick brown hair there. 

 

“It is one hell of a story.” She continued, a wicked grin on her face. “But you need wine first.”

 

Placing his head on the mattress, she got up from the bed and went off into the distance to pour some wine. Sandor took this moment to tentatively confirm he had all his limbs. One could never be too sure, particularly when you wake up in bed and you had been in a tournament right before. To his great relief his fingers and toes moved with very little complaint. He was naked, that was the next thing that popped into his mind, as he could feel the soft caress of the silk sheets and light blankets everywhere. Continuing his inspection he reached between his legs and confirmed he did indeed still have a cock. He wouldn’t have been the first to lose a cock at a tournament, most would rather die if given the chance. But he was intact, that was all that mattered.

 

Pushing himself from the bed he sat up and reclined on some feather pillows that had been stacked up, probably awaiting his return to consciousness. _ ‘Bloody seven hells I smell fucking amazing.’ _ He noted as he squirmed into position, he’d probably never been so clean in his whole life. Like her heather soap and flower oils. He touched his face, ‘ _ She trimmed by beard too...wait…” _

 

Something had been odd when he reached his hand between his legs the first time, but it hadn’t registered until now. Slipping his hands under the sheets again he realized what it was, his balls were smooth, soft even.  _ ‘She trimmed and cleaned me between my arse and my balls!!!’ _

 

It was the sacred zone of a man, and she’d invaded it. Shaved it. Moisturized it. 

 

He couldn't help but chuckle at her attempts to domesticate him, it was more cute than annoying he supposed. Sandor had never been cleaned there by anybody other than himself, it was surly intimate. Handing him a chalice full of wine and crawling up on the bed, Sansa sat next to him with a smile on her face as he drank deep. 

 

_ ‘Fuck she seems happy I’m moving at all.’ _ Which begged the question,  _ ‘What the fuck happened to me?’ _

 

But first he wanted to set the record straight, “My balls?” He asked, his eyes narrowing playfully as he took another sip of wine.

 

There were moments where she did really show her age, his question had made her blush slightly as she smoothed her loose silk robe over her legs. “I thought you would like to look your best when you woke up.” Her mouth said one thing but her eyes harbored ulterior motives.

 

He snorted at her admission and drank some more wine.

 

“So...I guess you want to know what happened.” She said, in this excited way that made Sandor feel oddly looked up to. As if she idolized him as a man and a warrior. Sandor had never been idolized by anybody, particularly a pretty woman of her standing. It felt strange and yet  good all at once.

 

He nodded, not quite ready to speak yet.

 

“Well the fight started out as one would expect. You were both testing one another, locking swords briefly and circling each other.” As she was explaining she was making little sword swiping motions with her hands. It couldn’t help but make him smile. It only just dawned on him that she probably hadn’t seen much outside of the North, perhaps outside of Winterfell. She sought a bit of adventure in her own right, that much was clear. He’d make an effort to change that depending on how things went.

 

“You were winning.” She said, “Then, you must have said something that enraged Lord Glover for he yelled at you and then turned his sword to the brazier and lit it on fire.” Her eyes were alive as she was telling the story, he could almost see the fire of the sword in them. 

 

That part he remembered, he was glad it was fucking over.

 

“The crowd gasped, as did I.” She continued. “You backed up some paces, as you had been advancing before. And the look on your face…” She was trying to find the right words, “Let’s say you didn’t look very pleased.”

 

He snorted at her words. He’d be a fool to say he wasn’t afraid of some things, he’d also be a fool to admit it in his line of work. So he took another sip of wine instead.

 

“So Glover advanced, swiping at you, pushing you backwards.” She was on her knees now, replaying the battle in her black silky black small clothes and a silk robe that kept getting looser and looser. “And then, well it was odd. You began to stumble a bit. At first we all thought it was fear of the fire.”

 

Sandor was remembering now, and it hadn’t been the fire that had scared him. It was something else, something that had thrown off his body. Thrown his senses into chaos.

 

“You were on one knee and managed to block his sword. Then you vaulted forward, with a ferociousness of a wild beast and swung your sword three times. Each time your blows were met with a block.” She had spilled some wine on herself as she told the story, her arms moving as she physically recreated the scene.

 

“That was when it got concerning. It was like you were drunk or had some kind of head injury. The way you were moving ...well it just wasn’t natural, not at all. You had begun to waiver, and then he tripped you.” Her face had concern on it now.

 

“I was on the edge of my seat of course. We all thought you were dead, but you turned suddenly and blocked, kicking Glover in the gut sending him flying across the ring.” She was breathing harder now as if reliving the match. Sandor had to admit, it sounded like a hell of a fight. Certainly the peasants got their copper’s worth.

 

“This is where I come in.” She said, a proud little smirk crossing her face. “I signaled my captain of the guard to come quickly, and told him to search each of your rooms. I don’t know how, but I had the sneaking suspicion that somebody was cheating.” She lifted an eyebrow then, referring to their talk prior to the tournament -- when he still thought her a handmaid.

 

“Once that was done I turned my attentions back to the fighting ring. You were crawling on the floor, it was horrific to see. You weakened, unable to stand, trying to stand but falling over and dragging yourself through the dirt, sword still in hand. We all cried out as Glover made his way toward you, flaming sword in hand hold it over his head.”

 

“The mirror…” Sandor said, remembering parts of what happened.

 

She smiled broadly, “Yes. The mirror.” She blushed as if happy to have some part in saving him, no matter how small. Her favor had saved his life it seemed.  “He stopped to look at himself and you must have seen it in the reflection because you swiped your sword somewhat blindly in his direction.”

 

Sandor was on the edge of  _ his _ seat now, he’d blacked out after that he knew naught of what happened afterward.

 

Her eyes were big and round, making her look both young and beautiful all at once. “You cut his fucking arm off!” She pointed on her own forearm where he had severed the Knight’s. “His sword arm just fell off, flaming sword and all fell in the dirt near you. Both of you slumped over on the floor. Him wailing in pain and you ...”

 

It looked hard for her to continue, but then she found the strength, “...you started convulsing then. Blood coming from your mouth and eyes, vomit….the sounds and the sights were ...well traumatic to say the least.”

 

“Fuck!” Was all he could say as he emptied his wine, then ran his fingers through his freshly trimmed hair.

 

She took a drink as well. “Of course I ran down and stopped the match. I ordered the Maester to attend to you first as you looked the most dire.”

 

“No shit.” Sandor answered knowing she would have attended to him first even if he had not been in such bad shape.

 

“What my Maester thought was later confirmed.” She reached under the pillow and pulled out a vial. The shape and the insignia were all he needed to see.

 

He threw his head back on his pillows, “Tears of Lys.”

 

“Enough to kill a couple of horses Sandor.” Her expression was very serious then. “But clearly not enough to kill you.” She reached out and touched his chest affectionately. He took her hand in his and pressed it there. “My Maester studied in Lys, so he knew what to do and acted quickly. Lucky us.”

 

“But how?” He asked, “I didn’t drink anything I did know where it came from , nor did I eat something that was just lying around.”

 

She smiled then, happy to fill in his blanks. “We suspect he had the poison put in your gloves. Once we stabilized you my Maester noticed your nails had discolored. It’s gone now, the poison works quickly. If it went through the skin, that could be why it didn’t hit you right away.”

 

“The river.” Was all Sandor could say. Those blokes at the river he’d gotten in a fight with, a distraction from what was really going on. The helmet just so he could see the fire better.

 

Anger welled up inside him, “I’m gonna kill that bastard.”

 

“Well…” She started, not nervous more sorry. “As my captain of the guard found this vial in the rooms of Ser Glover and we were able to get a confession out of the squire.” He eyes told of torture, “I needed to enact justice quickly -- it’s the Northern way.”

 

His eyebrows raised in surprise.

 

“Now I know what you’re going to say, ‘that’s how I get rid of men I don’t like’ but it’s the law. His head is on a spike if you want to visit it. You can still make out his features.” She smiled in a conciliatory way, knowing she had stolen the pleasure of killing Glover from him.

 

Wanting to change the subject quickly she dawned a devilish grin as she took his wine glass away and turned to put it on the bedside table. “Now there is our little business of your winnings…”

 

He didn’t let her finish her sentence, much less turnaround. He grabbed her around the waist, pulling her on all fours on the feather bed. Before she could even react, must less gasp, he had removed her robe, using the sash to tie up her wrists, then ran it around a rung in the headboard of the bed. 

 

Her arms were pulled out straight in front of her, her heaving bosom flat on the bed, her knees spread apart, her silken covered ass pointing right toward him -- and his hands on the sash. In control. The burnt side of his face curled up in a sadistic little smile, she was his now -- laid out for him to feast on.

 

The Lady of Winterfell was wriggling a bit until she finally turned her head to look back at him, “How dare you!” She spat at him.

 

It was a cute little yelp of sorts, he would deal with it. Tugging the sash to get her attention, and to remind her who had the upper hand, he ran the fingers of his sword hand up and down the backs of her legs -- letting his rough skin make contact with her legs. They were like the finest Dornish silk, soft and smooth to the touch yet firm, strong -- beautiful. She sucked in some breath, a sign she wasn’t all that upset with his actions -- more playing hard to get.

 

She looked nice like this, the Lady of the land. Vulnerable, open and most importantly his. “If you do this Clegane, you’re agreeing to our deal.” She called out to him, almost tauntingly. As if she’d won and not him. He’d put a stop to that thinking.

 

Bucking his engorged manhood up to her silken underwear, the thin fabric only a ceremonial barrier between them, he wanted to make sure she could feel how ready he was to close the deal. Sandor leaned his large body over hers so he could whisper in her ear. “I’m closing our deal woman, no questions there. But I have some non negotiable demands of my own.”

 

At the sound of his voice, and the feeling of his breath on her ear she shuddered, a small moan escaping her peachy lips. He knew what she wanted, no -- what she needed. She needed him to be in control, she needed him to make her feel like a woman -- release her from her demanding responsibilities. The gods knew he was ready to do it, but not before she agreed to his terms. 

 

Drawing his beard down her back, he made his way to her bum and began to place hot kisses over her small clothes. His warm breath made her shiver, even on this temperate summer night. Smirking Sandor bit the back of her thighs enjoying her little moans and words of encouragement. She tasted like the north, herbal and fresh. It made him wonder what other parts of her would taste like. He would take his time to get to know her, all of her. But for now, he would be content with teasing her. 

 

Brining his nose to her silk covered pussy, he took in her scent immediately correcting a thought from earlier.  _ ‘No, this smells like heaven.’  _

 

“Demand number one.” He began, bringing himself upright behind her so he could view her body completely. “This,” Sandor reached his hand between her legs, massaging her woman’s place. “...little cunt is mine whenever I want it, however I want it.”

 

Giving her a little pop on the ass he loved to watch the way she shivered under this control. She was going to be fun, that much wasn’t lost on him. “Demand number two.” 

 

He pushed down her underwear, exposing her most intimate parts to him. What he saw there made Sandor bite his bottom lip impatiently. A neatly trimmed little pussy with glistening thick drops of what might as well have been honey, at its entrance. It was alluring, probably the sweetest thing a man could see from this perspective. If there had been any doubt about her desire for him, it would have been gone now. Seeing as he already knew what she wanted and how much she wanted him, it made him want to speed up their little game as quickly as possible. 

 

Pushing his cock to her entrance, the thrill of touching her skin on skin sending sparks through his body, the large warrior grunted appreciatively. Cheekily Sandor pressed his thumb against the puckering of her arse — only to see her buck into him appreciatively. Inhaling he continued, even more ready to get the talking over with, “I don’t share, what’s mine. Any of it with anybody.”

 

Her pussy lips were swollen, her breathing was shallow — she liked what he was doing to her and if she liked that she was in for a treat, as he hadn’t even gotten to the best part yet. “Is that all?” She finally asked, about as ready to move on as he was. He could sense it in her voice, the way it titered on the edge of impatience.

 

Sandor didn’t answer, instead choosing to rub the head of his cock lightly along her generously lubricated slit testing its tightness and eagerness. “Yes...yes as long as its mutual, now please.” She begged.

 

A satisfied grin graced Sandor’s face, though she could see none of it from where she was. That was about as close to a yes as he would get from her. Keeping the sash in his left hand, he aligned his manhood with her willing sheath -- he entered her in one thrust, causing Sansa to gasp and tighten up around him. This had been a fantastic move in theory, but in practice she squeezed him with such force that he titered on spilling his seed for some moments. 

 

Her gasp was throaty, “Gods Clegane!”

 

In an instant his game was up, there was no way he would keep control over her arms and do everything he wanted to do with her properly. As soon as he let go over her bonds, Sansa pulled the sash through and freed her wrists, coming up on all fours. Her cheeks were flushed, her red hair formed a thin veil over her eyes — but he could read them all the same. She needed more, and she needed it now.

 

He was only too happy to oblige her, gently thrusting his hips at first to get a feel for her, then raising up on his feet and crouching over her bum.  _ ‘They don’t call me the Hound for nothin.’ _ He mused to himself as he drove into her with a firm and steady pace. 

 

This angle was usually a hit with the ladies, capitalizing on both his length and his power. It made Sansa grunt and moan in the most unladylike of ways -- and it pleased Sandor beyond what he thought possible. He was burying himself with authority in her warmth, his freshly shaven balls feeling even more than he thought they could as they firmly smacked against her body. 

 

_ ‘Maybe she did have the right idea about that ‘feeling my best’ stuff.’ _ Sandor thought as he used his body to great effect on the Lady of Winterfell.

 

She was gripping the sheets so tightly, she threatened to rip them from the bed. The sounds coming from her mouth were those of a woman starved and wanting - whipping her head around with passion. 

 

_ ‘She’s perfect.’ _ Was all Sandor could think, balancing himself behind her and reaching a hand down to her clit — making sure she was getting enough stimulation to cum all over him. He wanted her to cum in this position, her auburn hair awash across her flawless back, her most intimate parts in his full view. 

 

There was no need to wonder too long on this, for she shuddered around him, a small bead of sweat forming on her forehead. It was an exquisitely hard cum for such a small woman, one that threatened to expel him from within her. A smile on his face he maintained a firm grip on her hips, so as to keep them together just a little longer.  Though to say he was a bit relieved that she uncoupled herself from him and turned to look at him, her back on the mattress, would have been an understatement. He had nearly lost it for the second time in their short evening together, and Sandor wasn’t one give in so quickly. Not if he didn’t have to.

 

Sansa was looking at him, her eyes deep pools of curiosity that promised so much more. No woman had ever looked at him this way before, with such want and desire. Reaching between them she aimed his cock toward her again, like she couldn’t be without it. He entered her gingerly this time, taking his time to enjoy her -- in every way. To watch her facial expression change as she felt every inch of him slowly move inside of her was such a gift, To feel her closing around him tightly, to appreciate that little fire in her eyes. All of it was wonderful, all of it worth enjoying.

 

Pulling his neck down toward her, she began to nip at it -- inhaling his scent and teasing him gently with her teeth. In this moment he knew what she wanted, understood why she had chosen him. She wanted him because he could rule here when it suited him, but he didn’t have to. There was no competition between them, rather a partnership of sorts. These thoughts only became clearer as she locked her legs around his waist and began to roll her hips.

 

“Naughty girl.” He whispered in her ear. 

 

“Happy Clegane?” She whispered back. He knew a cheeky grin was on her face, but he didn’t answer. She’d have been blind and stupid to not know what he was thinking. And she was anything but that -- though given his looks he was surprised she wasn’t blind. He chuckled at the thought, then turned his focus to her again.

 

The look of determination in her eyes was a clear indication to Sandor that she intended to pump him until he released inside of her. And bloody seven hells she was making quick work of him. The combination of her soft lips on his neck and ear, her tiny fingers gripping firmly into his back, the way her hips rolled, changing the entry angle of his cock -- she’d make him her slave if he let her. 

 

_ ‘What a dangerous game we play.’ _ He said to himself as she continued to greedily bring him inside of her. 

 

He had given her everything, sworn his sword, his lands, his life to her service. It was not an easy thing for a man like Sandor Clegane swear his allegiance to one master, or himself to one woman. Yet, he couldn't help but feel deep in his soul that he had made the right choice -- that this would be the start of something big.

 

At this time Sandor could not fathom the things they would be called upon to do together. The battles they would fight, the sacrifices they would have to make, the dynasty they would create. Westeros would never be the same after this union, this moment in which they pledged themselves to one another in body and unknowingly in spirit. But, as with all good stories, those are tales for another day.

  
  



End file.
